Ghosts in the Room
by CaffieneKitty
Summary: John was overdue for a pub night with his old friends. He had every right to a pub night with his old friends. Why could he not stop worrying about Sherlock?


**Originally posted on LiveJournal and AO3 in July 2015**  
 **Rating/Content:** PG13, OCs suggested by John's Blog (the online tie in by the BBC), football, pub night  
 **Warnings:** Implied animal death, possible gore squick  
 **Notes:** Written for **watsons_woes** July Writing Prompt #27: "Aside from yourself, I have none." Title from "Home for a Rest" by Spirit of the West which has no other thematic implications other than being a song about drinking in London.

 **Summary:** John was overdue for a pub night with his old friends. He had every right to a pub night with his old friends. Why could he not stop worrying about Sherlock?

-.-

 **Ghosts in the Room**

-.-

Even though the game was at half-time, the sound of the pub on match night was palpable.

"What do you say, John?" Eric asked, loud enough to be heard over the noise.

"Hm?" John didn't look up from his phone.

"Arsenal's chances now, with Wilshere's knee injury?"

"Fine, I guess." _Sherlock should have texted something. Shouldn't he?_

"I'm just saying it's going to be a real challenge for them," Eric said, "what with Mertesacker gone back to his home planet and Aaron Ramsey turning into a flying pig."

"Well of course," John said, "that goes without saying." _Is he in trouble? He'd usually text me some kind of rubbish about mud or warts by now- wait, what?_

John looked up from his phone to see the snickering, smirking faces of  
Eric, Bob and Bill. Eric and Bob were the last of the Blackheath rugby lads (along with Mike Stamford who was on-call tonight). Bill Murray had folded into the group organically when he mustered out; the former Army nurse matching gibes with the rugby bunch like he'd known them all since school just as John had.

Eric elbowed Bob, who was red-faced from stifling his broad laugh.

"Of course aliens and flying pigs! You aren't really here, are you mate?" asked Bill, taking a drink of his lager, grinning like the well-disguised maniac he was.

John put down his phone and rubbed a hand across his face. "Sorry, sorry, just-" he grabbed his phone from the booth tabletop and tucked it into his pocket. "There. Now, football."

"Ah," Bob said, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes and grinning. "That flatmate of yours is up to summat tonight, yeah?"

"No, no, it's..." John frowned and waved a hand, a frown creasing his brow. "It's fine. He's off on a case, routine stuff. Nothing he needs me for. It's the first pub night I've made it to in ages, and I'm here. Pub, drinks, football, yes." _Said exactly the same thing to Sherlock before I left. If he's got into trouble because I'm not there..._ John grabbed his glass of stout and took a deliberately calm gulp.

Eric slapped him on the shoulder. "The way things go in your blog, he's probably got himself stuck dangling over a madman's shark tank already."

John sighed long-sufferingly. "It's not-"

"From the blog it seems more like John'd be the one ending up dangling over the shark tank." Bill's eyes twinkled over the rim of his glass.

John shot Bill a vaguely betrayed look. "I don't get-"

"Makes sense though." Eric leaned back in the booth seat, propping an elbow along the back. "Football's boring when you're out every night saving the world from evil masterminds."

"Not _every_ night!" John protested.

His old friends looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Huffing, John pulled his phone from his pocket to check for texts again, then realised he'd done it and groaned as yet another round of snickers went around the booth.

 _There should definitely have been some sort of message by now though._ John hesitated on putting the phone back in his pocket.

"You're worried, aren't you?" Bill asked, after the snickering had calmed.

With a snort, John shoved the phone in his pocket. "I'm not. I'm really not. It's just..."

Bill had his 'good listener' face on. It had worked wonders for him in dealing with obstinately silent 'tough guy' types in the field hospitals when they'd served together in Afghanistan, and it was no less effective back on home soil in a pub.

John slid the phone out of his pocket and back onto the table, aligning it against the square beer-mat. "He's usually texted me by now, when I'm not there. Random bollocks mainly but still, like a sounding board. So either he's being a prat and not texting because I blew off a minor case to come to the pub tonight, or-"

"Or he's in trouble," Bill finished.

John snorted, nudging his mobile with a finger. "Trust me, the prat option is far more likely."

Glances were exchanged around the table.

"Go on then." Eric said with a soft grin. "Football will still be here next time. Go be James Bond."

John looked up, pained but relieved at the same time. "You're sure? I did promise to come out to the pub tonight."

"And you did, and it's fine. We'll read all about it on your blog." Eric drained his glass and signaled the barman for another round, less one. "You buy first round next time though."

"If you're all sure," John said, hand hovering over his phone as he looked at Bob who had been silent.

Finishing his beer off to make space for the next, Bob waved a hand in tipsy benediction.

"See, it's fine." Bill said. "Go kick some arse, mate."

John stood, tucking his phone in his pocket and dropping enough cash on the table to cover his earlier round. "It's probably he's just in a strop, nothing dire."

Eric shrugged. "Then kick _his_ arse."

John's phone queeped with a text. He glanced down to see: _Are deceased manatees usually explosive? -SH_

"Manat-!" John groaned. "Got to go, he's talking about exploding marine mammals."

Eric raised his new glass of lager. "See? Only minutes before it's shark tank dangling time. Go get 'em!"

John glanced back at the table, grinned, then launched out the door of the pub, already hailing a cab.

-.-.-  
(that's it)


End file.
